“Born and raised.”
“And why would you leave such a beautiful place?” A place where you could walk everywhere, have the best granita and brioche in the world, to see beaches that rivaled the Amalfi coast.
“Work.”
“What do you do?” Now I knew he had money, if he could afford a place like this. That meant he had an interesting career, maybe a business owner or a physician or a lawyer. But his vibe didn’t fit any of those occupations.
There was a long pause before he answered, a pause that probably shouldn’t be there for such a simple question. His eyes trailed away before they came back to me. “Private security.”
Security. That fit him perfectly. I could tell by his tone that further questions weren’t welcome. I wondered what that could mean, if perhaps he was part of the security detail that protected the president or even the pope. That would explain his wealth, his hard presence, his muscularity.
“What about you?” he asked. “You know, just until the OnlyFans career takes off.” He smirked again.
When he smiled like that ... oh fuck, my ovaries. That smile made me borderline unhinged, almost made me lean in and kiss him in the middle of the damn bar. How could he go from serious to playful with such ease?
When his smirk dropped and that intensity set into his handsome face again, I remembered he’d asked me a question.
“I’m a photographer.”
“What kind of photographer?”
“I do a bit of everything. Photography and videography for new businesses or hotels. I also shoot weddings and corporate retreats. My passion is fine art photography, but it’s hard to make a living that way.”
“What is fine art photography?” he asked, the hardness in his eyes showing a sincere interest.
“It’s basically a creative form of photography where you’re trying to capture a vision rather than the subject. The best way I can describe it is, it’s like trying to make a painting with a camera. Trying to make art with reality. A painter has the ability to do whatever they want, change the sky from blue to rain clouds, to change the features of the subject from happy to sad, free rein to show whatever emotion they’re trying to evoke. But as a photographer, I’m at the mercy of reality. So it’s very hard to do.”
His eyes remained on mine, and he seemed absorbed in my answer. He didn’t interrupt me to ask follow-up questions. Just listened. “And how does that kind of photographer make money?”
“They sell their photographs in galleries and at art shows. The best of the best sell them like paintings, making tens of thousands of euros per picture. Others go for mass production, so restaurants and other places can all buy copies and put them up on their walls. But then you see the same picture all over the place.”
“And you’d prefer the first one.”
“Yes.” It was my passion, something I’d wanted since the first time I held a camera. I didn’t have the talent or the eye to paint or sculpt, but I could work magic with a camera. The question was—did everyone else agree?
“Keep trying.”
“I do,” I said. “This is the only thing I want to do with my life, so I’ll either make it ... or I’ll keep trying to make it until I die.”
He crossed his arms over his massive chest and gave a slight smile. “I like that attitude.”
“I’m not dedicated or ambitious. It’s just the kind of passion that doesn’t die.”
“And very few people are that passionate about anything.” He grabbed his glass and took another drink, practically ingesting diesel, based on the fumes I could smell.
Enzo had been somewhat interested in my photography in the beginning, but that curiosity had been short-lived. Whenever Ishowed him my photographs, he said they were nice, but he never really looked at them. Not the way I wanted the audience to look at my art. He worked in finance, so I knew he didn’t have an eye for artwork, so I just excused it. But Constantine seemed genuinely interested, especially since he’d already secured me in his bed for the night.
I went out on a limb and asked a question that maybe I shouldn’t. “What are you passionate about?”
He shook the ice that peeked from the top of his glass, then crossed his arms again. He considered the question with a stoic expression, but even then, he looked handsome. Deep in thought, eyebrows slightly furrowed, he really soaked it in. “Food. Family. And my country.” When he was done answering, he looked at me again.
Family was an obvious answer, but the other two were surprises. “Could you elaborate on that?”
“Food and family are so close together they’re practically the same.”
“You just don’t seem like someone who ... you know ... enjoys food.” My eyes trailed over his hard body, a body that could only be created with intense discipline. Heavy weights every single day. A very specific diet. When my eyes found his again, it was obvious he’d watched me look him over.
“My family owns Rosticceria Da Cristina. Been in the family since before I was born. I worked there all throughout school. My aunt had a passion for that restaurant, and she didn’t stop until she made it happen. She used all the recipes given to her grandmother fromhergrandmother. She still cooked dinner at night after a long day, hosted family dinners every Sunday, even when her hands hurt. To us, food and family are the same.”
